darking bog

darking bog

he always ran real loose with syntax juxtaposition   seemed in possession of a walleyed 

dyslexia

                                                                                           --   what the fuck you looking at 

I got me a lazy eye and a fantastic cogswork                                                                 

Ive seen things youd never imagine

                                                   and if I trip over my feet   misspeak   the end result is always innarestin    aint no fuckin way in hell Im taking anything back

comon   a darking bog is self-evident

                                                              then again so were a lot of truths that were overturned threatened to have their heads smashed   their spines piledrived through their brains if they refused to pull back their remarks and align with those who said otherwise

better alive and a coward  huh  than a dead brave

                                                                                       and a liar                     

then what is yours afterwards

he thought lie to me ONCE and all bets are off Ill never trust you again

                                                                                    brusque  yeah                   

but I havent time for liars

                                             I have a honed razor    a softnose bullet    a garrote 

Lies arent pretty                                                                                                                       

their results are ghastly

darking bogs  love pups  Dachshunds     someone  -  go ahead   -   and tell me that mutt 

aint all fucked up   a stretch limbousine that cant get over a curb  steps on its ears   

furrows dirt with an erection

--   Call it Schatzi and I swear Ill throwup

nervous spindlelegged rats called Chihuahuas tethered by thin leatherleashes 

that drag them down   

the strap always bellied  never pulled taut 

bugeyed  anxious  always Doom in their next step

darking bogs were scattered throughout the neighborhood baying at his passing   

suspicious  curious  bored  and eachs nose at their chainlinked fences were belied 

their aggression by wagging tails

                      all but One                                                                                                  

stoic  staring  stifftailed  while a grayed muzzle it had a straight back and clipped belly    

he seen it all before and everything simply recurred

                                                                                          on a loop  

on the other side of the locked gate                                                                                  

on all sides around him by tall chain fences

the epitome                                                                                                                                  

of a darking bog

1316,  Sunday,  27  4. 14 

Seems everyone

is someone he used to know

and those cinder-ash alleyways

arent worth the while going down again

no  not between the soot-streaked incinerators

their scorched stucco and heat-tortured traps

                                                                 or the slack unspooled wire fences behind them

clinging to odd-fashioned leadpipe stakes

whose heads were mauled flattened and disfigured

forging thin lips that slit unwary or ignorant hands and forearms

wire fences like toothless-gaps between immaculate painted-white picket fences

and no  not between the stern 55 gallon drums stood on concrete blocks for trash and

their brilliant aluminum counterparts whose lids were lucky to survive their first trash

pickup or were stolen by punks (he was one) who flung them like great frisbees into

white-lined blacktop parking lots (idly curious if they would strike parked cars or not) or

heaved into weedy ramshackle vacant lots

                                                                       and ever surprised when a crew suddenly

appeared and bulldozed smashed their trees and crushed their helter skelter makeshift

forts

the rats fled

pieces of his memory died

and no  not between the backyard fruit trees and Victory gardens

the idyllic comport of pinching fresh fruit (often green) or young vegetables

stealthily slipping in to browse like wild animals or inians   and caught (at times) and

punished (always severely) and made evermore keen that certain crimes were worth

suffering their punishment

yes  Seems everyone

is someone he used to know

and he seldomly Now entertained them

they smelled of retreaded tires and tired old routines

the handful of friends he had were plenty

theyd proven their worth

hed proven his

the trick now was surviving down to two

then beating the remaining to the punch

  1749,  Twosday,  29  4. 14  

trane ride

“From such crooked timber as humanity is made of,

no straight thing was ever constructed.”                                                         Kant

he liked the shelves of white rock broken and turned on end by the Earth

their noses jutting into the crotch of the bright sun lapping blue skies

the broken fingers of brush hanging at the edges of rock slides

where they grabbed the descending earth trying to save it

the fingerless earth unable to grab back or pull up

uninspired by the yanking brush

unable to cease their slip   

the demands of their gravity

knobs of their bones strewn in sorrowful rents

beside the railroad tracks lie the desiccated skins of black and white cattle

drawn long by runoff into shapeless sacks

except for the elongated tubes that were once their legs and bleached portions of skulls

peering out of their mouths    

under improbable trees blown wayward and ridiculous

                                      rusted corrugated tin sheets collapsed on a broken wood

skeleton  timber beams and broken ribs

                                                several boxed rooms broke flat  indistinguishable 

an immense cow flop  digested  then evacuated thoughtlessly

“There is not a negro alive who does not have  . . .  rage in his soul  . . .  this fever has

recurred in me, and does, and will until the day I die  . . .  Our failure to love without

due care . . . ”                                                          James Baldwin, Notes of a Native Son

careless loving  thoughtless loving  or love ignorant of the ramifications that supple

pairings may grow brittle

                                          a quiet fragility 

while supple can sway and bend and withstand abuse and force  brittle shatters

and splinters 

becomes sterile   

        then what would become of all that Beauty

                                                                                        a formation of empty pilings

driven into a low tidal creek  for some reason

stands forgotten  unfulfilled    patient

dry rot permeates its heels

                                               pits its heads like a worm-eaten lobotomy    forgetting 

remembering  

                      forgetting to remember

                                                                                                      or remembering to forget

once possessors  now vagrants

some still erect   crumbling proudly

while others turn   slump

the collapse of an ancient tree is heaped with spent fence posts and planks   kinked

rusted barbedwire and uprooted shrubs gathered with nooses of hemp rope slashed

possibly   Once thought to be burned in a raging bonfire 

                                                                                         a fireballs tail nailed to the earth

Now embraced by sexual wood squids in orgy

tenacles winding  groping   intertwining

                                                               finding sexspots  beaks agape  gasping in boiling

pleasure

                  and among them odd calcified skeletons  tight-lipped  bitter  unpleasured 

ugly  sullen  untouched

the train turns inland turning his back to the sea

the vivacious lands evaporate

he is surrounded by brown bald hills  fields of flat pancaked faces and depressions

harrowing in their gauntness and deprivation

                                                                               some of the crackerjack houses 

wrapped in clotheslines  were decorated with colored and geometric patterned fabrics

other structures were washed blue  slush boxes  like melting ice cubes dumped by

wayward drunks who think fresh ice will bring plentiful fresh liquor to sweeten their

nightmares and cease their delirium tremens shaking

                                                                                        pitiful alcohol junkies

who cant recognize spilling booze is a waste and there is no one who will refresh their

glasses  slake or slay their hard-headed demons

or spur their ugly cross-eyed lovers

                                                                        who were never worth the dip of their dicks

at the snap of their entrails or the cleft of their asses

                                                                                               nor were they

they all were just Something  literally  to do

a forgotten fuck is a disease

a warm receptacle breeding their discontent

                                                                                                

                                                                                    he could see what they cant

1pmishness,  Twosday,  11  11. 08